Month: November 2008

About once a day, I decide that every single one of us is going to lose his or her job, and then I have to put my head between my knees and hyperventilate until I’m OK again. It takes about an hour, and I’ve been trying to schedule it for lunch, so that I don’t lose productivity (unadvisable, when you’re already freaking out about the economy.)

Part of the problem is that I never really recovered from being laid off in 2000. I worked at a startup that stopped after a glorious six month run. We had free breakfast every day, massage therapists once a week, drinks after work most nights … and no business plan. Truly, it was bread and circus time in Dotcommia.

What’s going on right now is a little different, although I don’t love the idea of a panic caused by unregulated banking. It seems, you know, familiar somehow. Like when my grandfather used to tell me stories about living for a month on eggplants that his neighbor grew in the window box. You know, like that.

The other day I IMed Moss to ask him if everyone we know was going to get laid off, and he said no, we were not going to get laid off, and in fact we were all going to get laid. Moss is an optimist and a hedonist. Possibly the best combination of traits ever.

In completely unrelated news, tonight is stay in and be lazy night here in the Hubley household, and I’m watching possibly the crappiest ghost hunting reality TV show ever. It’s called Ghost Adventures, I believe, and this one guy is no word of a lie begging ghosts to punch him in the head as he meanders around this old insane asylum. If I were the camera man, I would take advantage of being the only person with night vision and whack this nerdlinger with a walkie-talkie. However, I’ve been under a lot of stress, so please keep that in mind.

My friend Rick claims that the secret to dating successfully is to decide what it is that you want, and then stick to it. Don’t make exceptions. People get into trouble when they start second-guessing themselves.

With that in mind, I set an age limit for myself. 28 was absolutely the youngest guy I would allow myself to date. And then a 25-year-old marine wrote to me on Match.com, and I decided that rules were made to be broken.

As you know, I’m doing the Match.com currently. This is not a terribly new or exciting thing, and is pretty much my go-to when I’m not already dating someone and am too busy to go out every night of the week. I’m having a lot more fun this time around, though, and I think it’s because I’ve finally figured out how to think of this online dating thing. And for this, of course, I must thank teh gayz. Watching my dudes endlessly troll Manhunt has shown me that it’s a numbers game, and you have to keep on going until you find what you’re looking for. (Whatever that might be. Put it this way: My goals are lot less interesting and pornographic.)

In addition, I have learned:

1) Everyone is crazy, especially after dating in New York for a few years. I’ve had guys start out by asking me point-blank if I could see myself in a relationship with them. I’ve also had a dude tell me that he would have been a priest, if he didn’t enjoy “keeessing and tooouching” so much. I held my tongue. I grew up in Boston. I know which jokes you’re not allowed to make.

2) The less serious you are about the whole thing, the more fun you have. And when I say “serious,” I mean “desperate.” At the moment, my desperation levels are quite low (as opposed to, say, three months ago when they were at Defcon 1, but that’s another story.) Therefore, I’m having more fun.

3) If someone says he only has eight fingers, it’s not a joke. He only has eight fingers. You’re also not allowed to stare at them while he lifts his pint.

4) Not everyone thinks I’m funny. I know! I couldn’t believe it either.

5) Half of the people who say they don’t smoke, smoke. All of the people who say they smoke occasionally smoke all the time. The people who are “trying to quit” have cut back to two packs a day.

I’m going to keep track of this stuff, I think. I sense that I could do the world some good here.

Yesterday, a bunch of folks came to our office to give free mini-spa treatments and not incidentally, plug the full-length dealies at their salon. This is totally fine, and a kind of ingenious way to drum up business during a recession, except for one lady who totally did my least favorite upselling technique: the spa neg.

She was giving hand massages, something that I was particularly looking forward to, as my chubby little toddler paws are always bound up in knots, thanks to the whole typing all day thing. I sat down and picked out a super-smelly lotion, and then she rubbed my hands for a couple minutes, talking about the spa’s other services all the while.

This was not totally relaxing. Less relaxing still?

“We also have facials,” she said, at one point in her patter.

“Oh, those are nice,” I said. In reality, I’m not a big fan. I feel like my face looks better with the gunk in it than with all that crap taken out. After the extractions, my pores look like moon craters and my skin usually has all the delightful texture of a boiled potato. I’ll keep my dirt, thanks.

“Yes. Lovely facials.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

I must not have seemed receptive, because she just spelled it out for me: “YOU SHOULD COME AND GET A FACIAL.”